The Bitter Taste of Past

The usual post-work routine at Sparkle Cafe was thrown into disarray. Gone was the comfortable banter, replaced by a sudden seriousness that settled over us like a shroud.

"Why do you kill people in your writing?" Sia asked, her voice laced with a seriousness I wasn't prepared for. My mind sputtered, caught off guard by the stark question. "I... I don't understand."

"Your blog," she elaborated. "The older posts, they're all filled with death. Why all the thrillers and mysteries?"

Tentatively, I tapped my fingers on the tabletop. "Those are the genres I enjoy writing. Someone has to die in those types of stories."

"Sure," Sia conceded, "but there are other options. Why not try something romantic?"

My fingers stilled, the rhythmic tapping ceasing. "Romantic? That's a bit… mainstream, don't you think?"

"So is killing," she countered with a dry wit that surprised a chuckle out of me. "Every day, somewhere in the world, there's another attack, another tragedy. And honestly? I hate it when you kill off your characters."

A mental pact was made right then and there. My next story, whatever it would be, wouldn't be drenched in death. But what then? My mind churned, a frustrating blank where inspiration should be.

Just as the silence threatened to become awkward, the waiter arrived, a beacon of normalcy amidst the sudden shift in mood. With a practiced smile, he placed two steaming cups of coffee on the table. Reaching for a sugar sachet, I tore the edge and sprinkled the white granules into my cup. Stirring the mixture, I was about to take a sip when Sia piped up.

"Just one spoon?" she inquired, a playful glint in her eyes.

"I prefer a bit of bitterness," I replied, continuing to stir.

"Ugh!" She crinkled her nose in mock disgust. "How do you even stomach that?"

A philosophical mood struck me. "Bitterness," I declared, "is the true taste of life."

Frowning playfully, Sia snatched another sachet and added it to my cup. "Two sugars make it sweet," she countered. "And sweet, my writer friend, is what life should be."

I glanced at her, then back at my cup, a hesitant smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "Why'd you do that?"

"Because that's how I take mine," she said simply.

Exasperation, laced with amusement, bubbled up. "Not everyone has the same taste, Sia. You haven't put any sugar in yours yet. Here, let's swap."

 Swiftly, she grabbed two packets at once, holding them between her teeth with a mischievous grin. Ripping them open with a flourish, she emptied them both into her cup. "Sorry, not happening," she teased. "This cup is way too sweet for a bitter gourd like you."

"Bitter gourd?" I repeated, a bewildered frown replacing my smile.

Her laughter, a cascade of infectious joy, filled the air. "Don't worry," she reassured me between giggles, "you like bitter things, remember?"

A blush crept up my neck, a clumsy attempt to deflect the sudden seriousness Sia's question had brought. "Just... my past was a bit bitter," I mumbled, the lightness in my voice strained.

The playful glint in her eyes vanished, replaced by a concern that mirrored the knot forming in my own stomach. "Sia," I began, forcing a smile, "it was just a joke."

But the damage was done. Her frown deepened, a silent acknowledgment that my flimsy excuse hadn't landed. "Rihan," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "what's your past?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and direct. A torrent of memories threatened to burst forth, threatening to breach the dam I'd so carefully constructed to contain them. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing them to stay sealed.

"Rihan?" Her voice took on a worried edge. "Are you alright?"

I managed a shaky nod, the lump in my throat making speech a herculean effort. "What past?" I rasped; my voice barely audible.

"There was a change," Sia persisted, her gaze unwavering. "Three years ago. You were so active, churning out new blog posts all the time. Then, suddenly, nothing."

Frustration bubbled up, a bitter taste on my tongue. "Sia," I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended, "what does that matter? Why are you so interested in my past?"

She leaned forward, her eyes searching mine. "Because," she said softly, "you're different, Rihan. There's a spark there, a depth I don't see in others."

"You don't understand," I countered, my voice thick with emotion.

"I can try," she said gently. "Bottling it all up inside isn't doing you any good. These worries, they're eating you alive. Every problem has a solution."

"Sometimes," I muttered, the words heavy with the weight of my past, "the shadows of the past cling to you like a second skin."

"And what if someone wants to offer you a little light?" Sia countered, her voice laced with a quiet strength.

The memories swirled, a tangled mess within me. "The brightest light casts the darkest shadows," I replied, more to myself than to her.

 "Why are you so negative, Rihan?" she asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

I tore my gaze from her and stared out the window, where the fiery hues of sunset were bleeding into twilight. A tightness constricted my chest. "What you see here," I said, my voice low, "is the result of a decision I made three years ago. I quit dreaming, Sia. I quit writing."

A heavy silence descended upon us, thick with unspoken emotions. Finally, Sia broke it. "What happened?" she asked softly.

With a heavy sigh, I lowered my gaze. "Life happened," I offered cryptically.

The overhead lights cast a warm glow on our table, but the vibrancy that had once been in Sia's eyes had dimmed. "There was a time," I began, my voice thick with nostalgia, "when I believed my dream was within reach. I had a way with words, a knack for spinning stories that captivated readers. They were unique, different, and they attracted attention, yours included. People started writing because of my work, tagging me in their posts, crediting me as their inspiration."

Surprise flickered across Sia's face. "That wouldn't bother me," she admitted. "If someone told me I inspired them to write, I'd be on cloud nine."

A silent echo of "you are an inspiration" resonated in my mind.

"Then what went wrong?" she pressed.

I braced myself, ready to revisit the ghosts of my past. "I failed to manage myself. Work drained my energy, leaving me creatively bankrupt by nightfall. I tried to keep writing, but I couldn't sustain it. Frustrated and defeated, I gave up on my dream. I stopped writing, and those who once saw me as a beacon of hope, well, they just stopped seeing me at all. And that' – that's why I disappeared."

Sia's gasp echoed through the cafe, a sound tinged with disbelief. "I can't believe this," she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.

"It happened," I confirmed, the weight of my past a heavy cloak around me.

A frown creased her brow. "But something doesn't fit," she said, shaking her head in thought. "Then why were you messing around with your laptop when we first met?"

A flicker of a smile played on my lips. "Restarting," I admitted. "Restarting my writing, that is."

The smile broadened on her face, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "And what sparked this sudden reboot?"

I met her gaze, a warmth igniting within me. "Sometimes," I said softly, "all it takes is a cup of coffee with the right person. I never told you this, but you, Sia, you rekindled that spark. You're an inspiration, you know that?"

A blush crept up her cheeks, momentarily stealing the vibrancy from her eyes. Her lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. Finally, she took a deep breath, composing herself. "Rihan," she said, her voice sincere, "understand this – there are people out there who still wait for your stories. And I'm one of them. So, mister writer, I have a demand."

A playful smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "A demand, you say?"

She stood up, her eyes holding mine. "Yes," she declared, a hint of mischief sparkling in their depths. "I demand a new story. But with one condition."

"And what might that be?" I couldn't help but be drawn into her playful spirit.

"No killing of the characters," she stated firmly, a playful glint still lingering in her eyes.

"No killing," I echoed, a chuckle escaping my lips. "Deal. Though, inspiration can be a fickle muse."

"You'll find it," she said confidently. "You always do. And thank you, Rihan."

"Thank you?" I echoed, surprised.

"For considering me an inspiration," she explained, her smile genuine. "See you around."

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me with a heart lighter than it had been in years. 

You're more than just an inspiration, Sia, I thought, a silent promise forming in my chest. 

You're the reason I'll write again.